1964-06-29 - Hush... Hush, Sweet Vesper
Summary: Maximus tries to convince the newly awakened Inhuman to come out.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
maximus vesper 

Oh, Maximus is totally eating his chinese food. That's why he took his plate way over here and ordered in, planning for possibly days worth of waiting to see what she becomes. He eats slowly, keeping an eye on the cocoon, and then wanders over to his inventing table to work on some things, too, always glancing.

The strands spun around her emerge from the Mists in reaction to the dark-haired girl's skin, her breath, something. Has anyone ever determined whether it's a natural phenomenon or a Kree byproduct, the crystallized barrier that encloses a nascent Inhuman in the first stages of becoming terrigened? Vesper adopts that age-old position that so titillated and horrified the 18th century Europeans who dug up Herculaneum and Pompeii, finding ash-encased hollows that depicted the unfortunates killed by Vesuvius curled up on themselves. Fire victims in high-rise towers are much the same. They have some similarlities to her, the same protective position bracing for an impact that is never sought. In silhouette barely visible beneath the thickening shroud around her, it's like waiting to see what the caterpillar does.

Play chess? Dream a little dream of crawling on green leaves and chewing through flowers? Maybe the great secrets of life are learned in those encoded moments as her genetic code shudders and shifts, bending and turning to new formations. The walls around her are opaque, allowing little light through, and it's questionable she hears anything at all.

Tick tock, Mr. Clock. Seconds melt away. Hour the first, immobile. Second, the air temperature warms up a bit and nothing else thrilling. The process can take a very long time or less time. Whatever secrets are there? Third… Third should go without notice. Because nothing happens there, either, initially.

Maximus continues fiddling with his inventions, moving between one and another, changing his mind and going back again. He fiddles with the garish crown of the Inhumans as well. He's definitely rigging it somehow. He glances over at the cocoon regularly, making sure he notices its changes. He knows it can be fast. He also knows it can take sometimes /days/. "Tra-la-lee…what will you beeee…" he sings.

|ROLL| Vesper +rolls 1d20 for: 8

Size gives no alteration: whatever she is on her way to becoming, it's not a crocodile or something along the lines of Gorgon. Nor does the woman arch and scream in any audible voice, though one muffled waver of a cry skims along the audible spectrum. The thickening walls contort slightly to envelop her, and then the silence becomes a particularly lengthy ordeal. Surely some noise ought to be found: scraping nails on the floor, the hiss of clothing or steam or boiling shadows as the temperature steadily lifts by degrees and the lights flicker.

Maximus knows that sometimes…the people on the inside can have a devastating effect. As the temperature starts to rise, however, he grows more concerned about this and he moves further away, putting some space between him as her cocoon, particularly when the lights flicker. safety first! Said Maximus almost never.

All that's needed is a gap, a hole no wider than the micropiercing of a pin. It's enough to crack open the vault of existence to one.


Her senses report the enormity of the night, the vastness beckoning within the solid walls, the
… smell of heavy oil clinging to the air …
… sound of the copper wire hum …
… touch of vibrations, cool and hard and swift …
… retreating king-not-king-engineer-dreamer and the heavy crown …
… the edge of violet spinning over a bent web of linear shapes …

Nothing quite belongs in the jigsaw witnessed by the girl, she who isn't likely witnessed by anyone else at the moment. Being hemmed in doesn't comfort her and she rushes at the sudden barriers. Hands outstretched feel along the imprisoning gates and bars, fingers stretched out in front of her. Ozone sizzles and something pops in an explosive loud flitter-crack of tungsten blown out in a white-hot flare. So what would one do, lost, as anyone does? She calls out — just not in a language anyone is likely to know. Hear. Understand. In silence, a voice repeats the words. She seeks the reassurance, perhaps, by pulling the familiar to her. It's slow, too slow, this drag of power as she drags it inwards, the surges crackling and vibrating.

"…be free…"
"…can see…"
"…what have you done, Maximus!?"

A speaker pops to life, carrying that voice in explosive, queerly thin bursts of sound before dying to silence.

"I have revealed your true self!" Maximus yells to the cocooned Inhuman as she starts to break loose. "You are free now! One of the few, the chosen! Let me see you, you magnificent creature!" Then he murmurs, "Also this is fairly disturbing…but I like that I'm not dead."

Perceiving her in any sense is terrifically difficult. A glimmer erupts on a glass screen, the briefest sheen of an outline shown against the inert figure. Look quick and there indeed is a living phantom of a sort. Maximus' reflection is superimposed over by the iridescent feminine melting into greater detail. His black curls are etched instead of spectral transparency. Her mouth is fuller than his but his eyes have actual substance that aren't prone to shift from ultraviolet - literal ultraviolet - to shining white. She lifts her hand to the glass parallel to his cheek in reflection. Clearly she can see him through that lens. If it's a television screen or some arcane object of his own devising….

…she's the ghost in the machine.

//…Maximus…? Let me free — //

Hearing her is again through the proxy of warbling, trembling electronics approximating her voice in a chorus. Until the wires squeal and shudder as the energy surges through them and up, up, up. Ever tried to see light shifting phases?

"My darling, this is why they prepare for years, but you are just as strong as they are. Just as wonderful. You CAN grapple yourself…make yourself whole. You are your own destiny…you will be able to breathe, or maybe…if you are made of electricity, now, you will not even have to." His blue eyes dance and he does still kinda hide, because electrocution is bad too. He just praises a lot, because, its true, but also because he knows women dig that.

Electricity would be the nice possibility. Worse, in many a way, for what sings along those cables and blazes into being. Maximus will not smell ozone so much as the discharge of a different kind of plasma. The girl who once stared at the constellations with such awe is more daughter to them than she might know. Vesper, the evening star, is light.

Vox machina; vox astra.

Now just to convince her to be less light.

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